


Thanatos

by YvonneSilver



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s06e04 Degüello, Fear, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, POV Max DeBryn, Psychological Torture, Season/Series 06, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22452502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvonneSilver/pseuds/YvonneSilver
Summary: The collapse of Cranmer House had added a lot of extra work to Debryn's schedule, not to mention the emotional toll it had taken. It had been a long week. And it was about to get a lot worse.-Max Debryn's POV of his abduction during his phonecall to Morse, and his ensuing rescue.
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. Taken

**Author's Note:**

> My unending gratitude to the wonderfully observant [TeaCub90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90/works?fandom_id=581192), who betaed this story and made it so much more coherent and kept me motivated to finish editing. Thank you!

It had been a quiet night for once, one of the first quiet nights since Cranmer House, but DeBryn had stayed late nonetheless. It wasn’t unusual for him to work late, but he preferred the early-to-bed, early-to-rise rhythm when the chance was afforded him. Tonight though, he had hoped that forensics would send the final report on Morse’s bootprints with the last mail, and his patience had been rewarded. The sight of all those bodies laid out in the gym was still fresh in his mind, and he’d be damned if he was the slowing factor in getting justice for the many dead. If he knew Morse at all, he’d still be working even at this time of night, so with the file in hand he headed back to his morgue and dialled Castle Gate Police Station.

As expected, the detective picked up on the second ring: “Morse.”

“Ah, there you are. It’s Max.”

“Late for you,” Morse commented, as if Max didn’t know. He could just about hear the sweet siren call of his warm bed. Right after he’d delivered the report, he promised himself.

“Listen, I’ve just had the results through on your muddy bootprints.”

“Ah.”

“As suspected, consistent with material found locally at Wicklesham. Sorry, wait a minute.” Two men had just entered the morgue, one in a long overcoat, one wearing a cap. Neither of them seemed familiar, but DeBryn never had much contact with the nightshift. The one in the cap shoved past him without a second glance, and began to leaf through his files as if he weren’t even there.

“Can I help you?” Debryn said icily, setting the receiver down next to the hook.

  
  


He hadn’t been paying attention to the man’s companion, and didn’t see the blow coming at all. Something hard and metallic bashed against the side of his head, clipping his eyebrow and sending his glasses flying.

Pain shot through his skull like a lightning bolt, and for a moment the edges of his vision darkened. He stumbled, clattering against the operating table. “What?” He mumbled, dazed.

He felt something cold clamp around his wrist, and before he could think to struggle his hands were pulled behind his back and cuffed there.

“What are you doing?”

A dull panic was rising through the haze of pain. He looked up into the impassive face of the man who’d just cuffed him. Older man, greying, long face, his blunt features unshaven. His breath caught as fear enveloped his thoughts. They were letting him see their faces. This wasn’t just a robbery.

The man advanced, and DeBryn stumbled backwards until he felt the edge of the mortuary table at his back. The man loomed over him, but DeBryn had nowhere further to retreat to. His hands grasped the cold metallic surface behind him, trying to draw some support from there. Frantically, he looked around for something, anything that could help him. His eyes found the phone, but saw the receiver was already back on the hook. No use in shouting for help.

“Where’s the file?” The man said inches from his face.

His brain froze, and he spoke the first words that came to mind. “What file?”

This time, he saw the punch coming, but with his hands cuffed behind his back he had no way to deflect it. He gasped as pain blossomed on his right cheek, and felt fresh blood beginning to flow down his nose. He screwed his eyes shut and tried not to whimper.

“The bootprints,” the man hissed.

He would’ve liked to have been brave in that moment, but pain and the threat of more to come makes a man more pliable than he’d like to admit. “By the phone,” he mumbled past his clogged nose, tilting his head back so that the blood wouldn’t run. He heard the man move away from him and was momentarily grateful. It wouldn’t matter if they took the physical file. He knew what was in it. Morse knew what was in it. All he had to do was wait them out.

Somewhere behind him, the man was rustling through his papers. The man in the cap was rifling through his filing cabinet. DeBryn made himself draw a slow, deep breath through his mouth. Leaning more heavily on the table behind him, he let his head drop a little. His nose was still bleeding, but not as much as he’d feared. He watched the slow drip of his blood patter on the tiled floor. No matter. His tiles had seen worse.

He was startled out of his morbid thoughts by a hand grabbing the back of his neck. “Right. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Debryn asked, his voice rising with new fear.

The man offered no further explanation. “Go.”

He was led out by the man in the cap, with the menacing presence of the other man behind him. They marched him out the back entrance and to the deserted car park. Deserted except for a single car; dark-coloured, possibly brown, it was hard to tell in the dim street light. The things a man notices while under duress.

They opened the boot of the car.

“Get in,” his captor said.

Fear ran ice-cold down his spine. The boot of that car might as well have been a grave. If they got him to a secondary location, he’d be as good as dead. But they were out in the open now, and the longer he could stall, the greater the chance someone might see them. “I’d really rather not.”

Before he could even think to react, the man had grabbed him by the hair and slammed him into the lid of the open boot. DeBryn cried out at the sharp pain that shot through his left temple.

“How about,” the man said, reaching for his neck, “you stop talking back to us.” In a single deft motion, he yanked DeBryn’s bow-tie loose. “And just do as you’re told.” He pushed him so that he faced the car, and suddenly there was fabric in his mouth, tugging at the corners of his lips and stifling his words.

They ignored his muffled protests as they pushed him into the boot. The lid slammed painfully against his knees before he had full time to pull them in, and then slammed properly shut the second time, sealing him in complete darkness. There was nothing for a moment except his own quiet whimpering interspersed with his frantic breath. A couple of seconds later, there was the sound of the front doors slamming shut, and the car began to drive.

There was no room to move in the cramped boot. They had dropped him on top of whatever was already in there, and something rigid was pressing uncomfortably into his side. The shoulder he had landed on was already beginning to ache, and his face was pressed up against something metallic: a rake, or a grate, or something. He tried to somehow brace himself against the inside, but there was only so much he could do with his arms trapped behind him, and every unsuspected turn slammed him painfully against the walls of his tiny prison, adding bruises upon bruises, until the car reached a long straight stretch that was probably a highway.

He tried not to think about where they were headed, or how long the drive might take. Wherever he was being taken, he was being taken there to die. To be executed. He thought unbidden of the body from the Cranmer collapse. H.B.. Two bullets to the back, hands bound.

Then again, he might not be so lucky, he thought, his stomach twisting with fear. If they’d wanted him dead, a body was more easily transported than a prisoner. These men had already proved themselves ruthless enough to kidnap a police pathologist from his own morgue. What else were they capable of?

He could tell when they moved off the main road and onto a dirt track by the shaking of the car. His stomach sank when he thought about what that meant. They were taking him somewhere quiet, somewhere isolated. Somewhere he wouldn’t be found. Somewhere they wouldn’t hear him scream. He squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference in the darkness he was in, and attempted to control his breathing.

His bruised shoulder complained at every bump in the road, and he tried again to roll into a new position, but there was simply not enough room. There was nothing he could de except grit his teeth and bear it. He ground his teeth against the fabric of the gag, despite how uncomfortably it pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Finally, mercifully, the car rolled to a stop. DeBryn allowed himself a sigh of relief, and tried not to think about what would happen when they pulled him out of the car.

He heard the front doors open, and felt them slamming shut in the reverberation of the car. The sound of footsteps on crunching stone. He waited, his breathing shallow, his heart hammering in his chest. But the boot remained shut, and the footsteps slowly retreated, fading away into nothingness. They weren’t… They weren’t just going to leave him here?

Panic seized him by the throat and he blindly kicked out, sending a dull metallic echo through the car. They’d have to hear that. Someone had to hear that. He kicked out again, and waited, straining to hear the slightest sound from the outside world. But there was nothing, and Max could feel his resolve crack. He stamped again and again and again, not even waiting for an answer, until he lay panting and crying in the dark. There was nothing, no response, just darkness and the sound of his own stifled sobs.

\--------------------------

He must have dozed off for a second, the fear draining all his reserves, for he startled awake at the sound of the boot opening.

“You’re wanted.” It was the same man as before, Overcoat, with the same curt manner. Before DeBryn could begin to contemplate what it was he wanted, the man had dragged his legs out of the car, before grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him upright. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he noticed the sky was already lightening. One more dawn, he thought. DeBryn blinked in the soft light, but the world refused to come into focus. He wasn’t given any time to adjust, as his captor pulled him onto unsteady feet and pushed him away from the car.

“Walk.”

He toppled forward, his shoulders twisting painfully as he sought for balance, the muscles in his side protesting at the sudden movement after his long confinement. His legs had cramped up from their long-held position, and it felt like every part of his body ached. Pins and needles were creeping up from his right foot and calf. He needed a moment, a moment just to stretch and come to his senses. He tried to say as much, though his words were muffled by the gag.

The man cuffed him on the back of the head. “Walk.”

He stumbled forward again, keenly missing his arms for the balance he needed. His other aches and pains were making themselves known. There was a dull ache all through his right side, with focus points on his shoulder and just below the ribs. His head was throbbing, dried blood caked in his hair-line and below his nose. His wrists were chafed raw from straining against the handcuffs. At least he was still breathing.

The man didn’t touch him again, but DeBryn could feel his constant threatening presence right behind him. He needed no further motivation to keep moving.

Without his glasses, his surroundings were no more than blobs of grey and brown and green. The shape he was steered toward slowly resolved itself into a sharp metallic building. He halted at the bottom of a long open metal staircase. It would not be an easy climb without a grip on the railing. He tugged at the cuffs again, but they held his hands securely behind his back. He looked plaintively back at his captor.

“I’m not carrying you up there. Move it!”

There was no point in arguing, even if he had been allowed to speak. There were no choices, at least not good ones. He gingerly set his foot on the first step and began making his way up, his captor following two steps below him.

Somewhere halfway during his climb, he wondered dully if he might take the man below him down with him, if he were to stumble and fall now. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go, a tumble down the stairs, if he could take one of his tormentors out with him. It wasn’t a particularly good way to go either. He’d seen the kind of bodies such a death left. He wasn’t sure if it was the fear of dying, or the last shred of hope that somehow he might still get out of this alive that stopped his train of thought. Maybe it wasn’t either of those things. It felt like he had moved past fear, past hope, and all there was left was the mechanical action of one step after the next. All he felt was tired. He kept going.

He arrived at a short grated landing, his breathing ragged around the edges of his gag. Despite the cold morning, there was sweat slicking his metal cuffs, stinging in the cut above his eyebrow, dripping into his eyes. He was given no time to recuperate. Behind him, the man gestured towards a dark opening in the concrete wall.

There were three figures inside the concrete room: two leaning against the wall on his right, one sitting on what appeared to be a desk in front of him. The harsh lighting draped the room in shadows, and without his glasses, he couldn’t recognise a single one of them, though he recognised the cap on one of the figures to his right.

The figure on the desk motioned something at him, and a moment later he felt something tug around his mouth. The man behind him loosened and finally, blessedly, removed the gag. DeBryn coughed heavily, spat and began working his jaw to relieve the stinging in the corners of his mouth.

“Ah. Here he is,” the figure in front of him said. “Doctor?”

DeBryn recognized that voice, though it took him a moment to slip it into place. Jago. Jago? He had known that City Police was worried about corruption close to home, but he hadn’t expected it this close.

Jago held something out to him, but it was black on a dark background and hard to make out. Then he heard the tinny voice calling his name on the other end of a line. A phone. Max hesitated.

Jago wiggled the receiver impatiently. “You can talk or you can scream. Your choice.” He sounded almost bored. Max felt his blood run cold at the thought of what such a man could do. He stepped forward and let Jago press the receiver against his ear.

“Dr. DeBryn,” he said, out of habit, too scared or too tired to think of anything meaningful to say.

“Max?”

Hearing Morse’s worried voice gave him a sudden surge of courage. “Morse? Morse, don’t give these bastards - ”

The punch to his gut drove all the air from his lungs, doubling him over and clouding his blurry vision. Jago lazily retracted his fist as DeBryn fell to his knees, gasping desperately for breath.

Somewhere above him, Morse’s worried voice shouted his name on the other end of a fragile line. Then Jago’s voice cut over him: “Wicklesham quarry. One hour.” The receiver clanged back on the hook.

DeBryn regained enough air to cough heavily, though every breath hurt his bruised midriff. From somewhere above him came Jago’s lazy voice.

“It’s nothing personal Doctor. But desperate times, you know.”

DeBryn felt his anger blaze. “We were colleagues,” he spat at him.

“Hardly,” Jago huffed. He threw a piece of white cloth at the man standing behind him. “Take him back down to the quarry.”

“No!” Debryn yelled, the sound already muffled by fabric being pulled into his mouth again. He would have charged at Jago in that moment, blind fury overcoming him, had the man behind him not grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backwards out the door. He struggled, attempting to get back into the room he was being pulled away from. Jago was supposed to be one of his, should have been on the right side, and DeBryn's righteous anger flared. But the lackey holding him was unperturbed by his struggles, and dragged him inexorably back into the light.

Once outside, he shoved him back towards the staircase. DeBryn stumbled, but managed to stop just short of the stairs. There were a lot of stairs.

A sudden nauseating thought occurred to him. This had been why they’d kept him alive. He had served his purpose. They had used his voice to lure Morse to his death, and now they were going to be rid of him. The stairs suddenly seemed a lot longer looking down them than they’d seemed on the way up. Just a little push. He flexed and balled his hands behind his back, testing yet again the unyielding strain of the cuffs. He wouldn’t even be able to break his fall. There was nothing he could do.

“Oi. I’m not carrying you DOWN the steps either,” a voice mocked behind him. The laughter that followed told him that there were two of them now.

He felt the fight flow out of him. Gagged, cuffed, outnumbered. There were no good choices. He stepped onto the first rung.

They were the longest flight of stairs he had ever walked. With each step, he was sure he would slip, or be pushed, to meet his end on the rough stone floor below. He could hear the two men talking behind him, but could make out no words above the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. There was nothing except the clang of the staircase and the next step down.

After an eternity, he heard the soft crunch of stone under his feet. He’d made it. He drew a shuddering breath, and felt the world shift beneath him. He suddenly found his feet couldn’t carry him any further. A relentless tremble shuddered through his legs, buckling his knees below him. Adrenaline spent, he sagged down onto the bottom step and stayed there. If they were going to kill him, they might as well do it here. He was going no further.

He supposed they jeered at him, but he no longer had the energy to parse the sound into words. All of it was meaningless anyway. In the end, the two men each grabbed one of his arms and dragged him bodily to a nearby lorry. They dumped him unceremoniously onto the burlap sacks in the back. The side clanged shut, obscuring his view of the quarry, and once more, all he could do was wait.

An hour is a long time. It’s stretched even longer lying helpless in the back of an empty lorry on a cold morning, waiting for death to arrive. DeBryn rolled onto his stomach, to spare his aching shoulders and bound hands. He wished he could have slept, or passed out; anything not to have to feel each agonizing second build the dread in his stomach. But he stayed mercilessly conscious, watching the slow lightening of the sky, ears straining to hear the sound of arriving cars.

It was footsteps he heard first though. His captors, come down to the quarry floor. DeBryn had thought himself spent, all his other emotions gone numb within his all-encompassing dread, but at the sound of their approach he felt anger flare up in him again. He grabbed hold of that feeling. They deserved nothing less, the traitorous bastards. He looked and saw a face appear above him.

“You still with us Doctor?” An unfamiliar voice belonging to a face he couldn’t make out. Infuriating. “Hour’s almost gone.”

DeBryn made an angry noise around the gag, putting as much disdain into it as he could manage. But despite how strongly he was holding on to his anger, he felt his heart drop. Somewhere he felt a sense of relief that Morse hadn’t walked himself into this obvious deathtrap, but the feeling was overshadowed by the desolating knowledge that this meant his time was almost up. He must’ve subconsciously had the quiet hope that Morse would manage to mobilise the cavalry, but apparently that was beyond even Morse’s tenacity. DeBryn grit his teeth and firmed his resolve. If this was to be his time, he would at least go with whatever dignity he had left.

The face disappeared from view.

Not a moment later, he heard footsteps. Not a car approaching, just a singular set of footsteps. His heart stopped. The resignation he’d felt was washed away by pure anguish. There was only one person those footsteps could belong to.

If DeBryn had thought he’d reached the depths of his despair, he was proving himself wrong. He began to struggle anew, fighting to make any substantial noise past the gag, kicking out his feet to try and reach the edges of the container, anything to warn the oncoming footsteps away. Why had he come? What was the point in both of them dying?

He froze when Jago started talking. That meant Morse was in earshot. And within range. And Debryn couldn’t warn him. The anguish was almost a physical force, freezing him in place. He had never felt this hopeless before.

Morse hadn’t said a single word, yet, but Jago was doing enough of the talking. Gloating, more like. DeBryn hated it, hated that he had to lay there and listen and not be able to do anything about it. He wished at least Morse would say something, would contradict the bastard, would let DeBryn hear his voice. It would’ve been a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

But Jago continued his monologue unchallenged. “We’re born, and we die alone.”

That sounded final, and DeBryn hadn’t managed to make a sound. Morse wouldn’t even know he was here. DeBryn curled in on himself, wishing he could at least cover his ears, so as not to hear the gunshot, so as not to have to know what it would mean.

The next sound was not a gunshot. It was a car. DeBryn could have cried with relief. Backup was coming. He wasn’t alone.

The first voice he heard was Fred Thursday, and his heart swelled with joy. No matter how far Thursday had drifted, now that the chips were down he was firmly on Morse’s side.

Next was Strange, dependable as always, and DeBryn felt a vicious satisfaction. A man with his connections would make sure Jago faced justice.

And then - finally - Morse spoke his first words since entering the quarry; his clear voice filling DeBryn with hope.

“Where’s DeBryn?”

DeBryn couldn’t suppress a muffled sound, despite knowing that Morse wouldn’t hear him.

“Alive?” A single word that held the weight of the world, an unbearable tension belied by the nonchalant answer.

“Last time I looked.”

Yes! DeBryn wanted to shout. Alive, and kicking! Get me the hell out of here!

Then the side went down and he could finally see what was happening. There they were, his four City Men, side by side. His heart swelled with pride, a warm feeling only slightly marred by a pang of dismay. He should’ve been at their side, not just lying here, being bloody helpless.

“It’s all right, Doctor. We’ll have you home safe soon.”

DeBryn squeezed his eyes shut. That’s all he wanted. That’s all he needed right now. He wished he could believe it.

He had noticed something else when he could finally see what was happening. The four City men were the only back-up that had arrived. Four honest policemen opposite four ruthless traitors. They had nothing to bargain with. And if the survivors could make the truth what they needed it to be, what hope did they have?

DeBryn shook his head at the bleakness of his own thoughts. If nothing else, he knew they would fight to the last man. And they’d need him after the dust settled, to pick up the pieces. If he wanted to be able to do that, he needed to keep believing they would win true.

He clamped down on the panic that swelled in his throat when he saw Jago lift his weapon and point it straight at Morse. He forced himself to keep watching. He needed to know, needed to at least be witness of what befell here even if he couldn’t help. The moment stretched, the seconds ticking by endlessly as Morse stared down the barrel of Jago’s gun.

But the dreaded shot didn’t come. Instead, something seemed to shift in the air. An awareness spread through the group, and only then did DeBryn’s ears pick up what they’d heard: sirens. There were uniform on their way. Relief swelled in him and he drew the first real breath since the whole ordeal began. They were going to be all right.

He saw the crooked foursome buckle under the threat of increased police presence, running for the cover of the quarry buildings, the four City men hot on their heels. Correction, three City men hot on their heels. One of them had made a beeline for him first.

He tried to resolve the blurry face staring down at him into one of his officers. “Doc?” Strange’s voice. Bless him. “Are you all right?” He gently dragged the gag out of DeBryns mouth.

“I’m fine,” he said immediately. He was. It was the others who could use help now. No telling what would happen to those pursuing the culprits. To his irritation, Strange showed no intention of leaving. “I said I’m FINE. Go! Catch the bloody bastards!" That seemed to convince him, and he rushed off after the traitors. DeBryn rolled onto his back, looked up at the sky, and waited for back-up to arrive.

  
  


Before long, the sirens were loud enough to reawaken the headache that had been building all night. Then, suddenly, blessed silence, except for the sound of doors opening and closing, and the crunch of sand. To his dismay, the footsteps seemed to be moving past him, heading towards the buildings. DeBryn gathered as much breath as he could still muster. “OI!”

The officers froze in their tracks, and then he heard a couple of them make their way over to him. As they clambered into the lorry, DeBryrn was able to make out a little more. They were two women in sharply pressed traffic warden’s uniforms. One of them had an unruly bunch of brown curls sticking out from under her cap, but her colleague was already greying. The young woman let out a shocked gasp, but the older of the two wasn’t as easily flustered.

“Stay calm, sir. There’s an ambulance on its way.”

“Yes, that seems appropriate.” DeBryn said, an odd but not unwelcome sense of calm coming over him as he regained more and more control of his situation. "Would you mind helping me sit up?"

They knelt down on either side of him. Despite their gentle aid, the motion set his head to throbbing, and the blurry world heaved like a ship in a storm. He closed his eyes and waited for the vertigo to settle. It wouldn’t do to be sick right now. Not when everything was finally seeming to turn out well.

“Sir?” Said the young woman to his right, her hand still supportive on his shoulder.

“Mild concussion,” he diagnosed. “Just a moment.” The nausea settled, and DeBryn moved on to the next point of order. “Would either of you happen to have the keys to a set of standard issue police cuffs?”

The restraints clicked, and DeBryn groaned as his strained shoulderblades settled themselves back into place, the renewed bloodflow sending a wave of pins and needles through his haggard shoulders. Despite the discomfort, he immediately reached for the remnants of the gag still tied around his neck. With a bit of fumbling he unknotted the damn thing and threw it away from him. There. He felt better already. He began to absentmindedly rub feeling back into his chafed wrists.

He realised with a little embarrassment that both the police officers were still staring at him. “There’s nothing much you can do here,” DeBryn said. “You should probably go see if your colleagues need any help.”

He felt more than saw the officers exchange a glance above him. Then the officer to his left backed away, leaving her colleague to watch over him. She knelt at his side, close enough that he could make out her face. A kind face, round with dimpled cheeks and sensitive brown eyes. DeBryn guessed her to be in her early twenties.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” he said kindly.

"Eleanor. I mean, PC Miller, Sir."

"My name is Max." He held out his hand. “Gently please, the wrist can’t take too much strain at the moment.”

She looked at his hand like he’d offered to let her hold a live grenade, but she took it anyway. "Are you all right sir?"

DeBryn let out a very undignified giggle. He couldn't help himself; now that all the tension of the past night was finally lifting, the relief was making him light-headed.

Eleanor was looking at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sir?"

"Just a touch of shock." He heard himself say. "It'll settle."

The tingling in his shoulders was slowly becoming less, replaced by a more general ache. Now that he had a bit more time, he catalogued his own state of being. He seemed to be mostly in one piece, very little damage aside from the bruising, except for the headache that was still nagging at the base of his skull. He should make sure to get that checked out. One could never be too careful with head wounds. And he’d been unconscious for a while. Which reminded him to ask, “You wouldn’t happen to know what time it is?”

“It’s just gone 10.”

“Friday?”

“Yes sir.”

He hadn’t even been gone half a day. It seemed like a lifetime.

  
  


His head snapped up at the sound of a gunshot echoing through the empty quarry. His heart lurched. Who had been shot? A moment later, Morse’s voice shouted down to the quarry floor.

“We need a doctor up here!”

DeBryn was moving before he even had time to think. He grimaced as he rolled onto his bruised knees, but ignored his discomfort as he clambered towards the tailgate.

“Sir! What are you doing?” Eleanor exclaimed, hurrying to her feet.

“You heard him.” DeBryn answered brusquely. “Someone needs medical attention up there.” With some difficulty, he sat down, and swung his legs over the side of the lorry. Once there, sitting on the edge of the tailgate, he steadied himself for a moment. He wasn’t entirely sure if his legs would hold him, and certainly wasn’t looking forward to the shock of the landing shuddering through his bruised body, but he’d be damned if he just sat there helplessly.

Before he could jump down, he felt Eleanor’s hand on his shoulder, but it was the genuine concern in her voice that actually stopped him. “Patience. There’s an ambulance on its way and you’re in no state to climb up there.”

DeBryn’s stomach turned at the thought of those open metal steps. He resolutely pushed his fear down. He had a duty to uphold. He felt a flutter of worry. It could be any one of his men hurt. He shook free of her touch and turned round. He ignored her look of sympathy and tried to sound as reasonable as he could. "Listen. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve just spent the whole bloody night in the line of fire. I can handle myself. Someone is hurt up there, quite possibly one of my, one of OUR colleagues. I'm going to help them, with or without you, but I'd be very glad of your assistance."

She still hesitated, but when DeBryn shifted further to the edge, she jumped down beside the lorry and held out her hand.

“On my left please,” DeBryn said. “The right side’s taken a bit more of a beating.”

She dutifully moved to his other side, and he took her hand. She took him by the elbow, and slowly he lowered himself to the quarry floor. The shock wasn’t as bad as he’d feared; but it did aggravate his building headache, and it set the world to spinning again. He was very grateful for Eleanor’s support. It wouldn’t do to faint now.

“Can you walk?” She asked.

“A moment please,” DeBryn answered, as he waited for the ground beneath him to stop rolling.

At that moment, he became aware of the sound of approaching sirens. Beside him, Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. That’s the ambulance arriving.” Her voice took on a more overbearing tone. “I told you help was on its way.”

He hummed some kind of agreement. It shamed him how relieved he felt to be relieved of his duty, but it was probably for the best he wouldn’t have to climb any stairs in his current state. At least the vertigo had passed again. He opened his eyes, and saw someone was crossing the quarry floor, directing the disembarking ambulance personnel towards their destination.

“I think I’m all right now,” DeBryn said, releasing Eleanor’s hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she let go of his elbow.

“Shall I walk you to the ambulance?” She asked, holding out her arm for support.

“Max!” A voice cut across the conversation. DeBryn smiled, he’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Give us a moment?” He asked Eleanor, patting her softly on the arm. “Thank you officer.”

He wondered if Morse noticed how he instinctively placed himself between DeBryn and the lorry, as if to physically shield him from the place he’d been held in. “Oh god, Max. I’m so, so sorry,” Morse said.

Debryn huffed. He must’ve really looked a state to produce such worry in the detective’s voice. “It can’t be that bad,” he said. “I’m still upright. Who got shot?” He asked with a nod towards the building.

Morse seemed momentarily thrown off-balance. “Box,” he answered eventually. “He and Jago shot each other.”

Box? That was a surprise. “So he turned out alright in the end.”

“I suppose,” Morse agreed. It was hard to read his face without his glasses, but there was reluctance in his voice. Morse could hold a grudge like no other. He shook free of his thoughts and turned them to Debryn again. “But what about you, are you ”

“I’m fine,” DeBryn cut him off. He wasn’t quite ready to think about how he was. “Strange came and checked on me.” He hesitated for a moment, rubbing absent-mindedly at his bruised wrists. “You did catch all of them?” He hated how fragile his voice sounded, but he needed to know.

Morse nodded, “And they’re not getting out for a good long while.”

“That’s good. First things first.” He hadn’t meant for it to sound so bitter, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Max…” Morse began, apologetically.

DeBryn could hear the hurt in Morse’s voice, and felt his shame deepen. He tried to think of something to mitigate his blunt words. “It’s fine Morse, I know what you’re like.” Driven. Focussed. Unstoppable. “I knew you’d get around to me eventually.” And he had known, had known that in all the world there was one man who would always come to find him, no matter the risk.

Morse nodded quietly, and again DeBryn wished he could at least read the look on the man’s face. Morse was never forthcoming about what he was thinking but at least he had a face like an open book. After a beat of silence, Morse gestured at him. “You should probably get someone to look at that.”

Max followed his gesture, reaching gingerly for his left eyebrow. His fingers came away sticky with half-dried blood. “Oh, it looks worse,” he said, hoping to console him. “Head wounds, you know. The concussion seems mild, though I’m hardly an impartial source.” He wiped his fingers absent-mindedly on his waistcoat. “It’s the wrists I’m worried about,” he added, rubbing at them again. “I need steady hands in my line of work. Not that the patients complain, ” He stopped, realising he was rambling. That seemed unhelpful. “I should probably head to the hospital.”

He looked up to see Morse’s intense blue gaze on him. “Are you alright?” Morse asked softly.

Well, that was a question he wasn’t quite ready to address. He made a vague noise of assent.

Morse seemed to accept that as enough. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the set of glasses.

“Oh. Thanks.” DeBryn made to put them on, then noticed the fracture running through the right lens. “Cracked. Bugger.” Just his luck. He slipped them into his pocket instead. There’d be a spare pair in the mortuary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thursday making his way over. That was probably his cue to leave. There’d be plenty of time to talk after this whole mess was cleared up.


	2. KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON

Debryn hesitated at the edge of the elevator. The dimly lit basement hallway was empty as he expected it to be, nothing to indicate anything was out of the ordinary except for the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He was beginning to doubt the sanity of being back here so soon. Maybe he should have just assented and let a policeman fetch him some clean clothes from his house. But that would have meant letting a stranger rummage around in his home. And more importantly, it would’ve meant admitting to himself he was afraid to come back here. He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to let them scare him out of his domain.

He took a hesitant step forward, allowing the elevator doors to close behind him. The double doors to the morgue were to his left. To his right a long blank wall. Straight ahead the exit out to the carpark, where bodies arrived in ambulances and were delivered into hearses. And sometimes doctors into car-boots. He shuddered.

Suddenly, he realized how ridiculous this was, standing in the hospital basement feeling so desperately vulnerable in his hospital robe, when the solution was simply to walk into his office. DeBryn took a deep breath and headed in.

It had been less than 24 hours since he was last here. It might as well have been a lifetime. The cleaners had been in that morning, and the opened cabinets were closed, the dirt swept from the floor, the blood – his blood – wiped away. There was no sign of what had happened here last night. No sign, except the unshakable apprehension humming in DeBryn himself. But there was nothing he could do about that, so he might as well ignore it.

He found his spare clothes undisturbed in his locker; trousers, socks, shoes, undershirt, shirt, waistcoat, spare glasses, bow tie. He felt more and more like himself as he donned each piece, and finally tied his tie. He could do this. He was fine.

A sudden sound from the hallway startled him out of his thoughts. Immediately fear gripped him, his heart in his throat, his breathing shallow. “This is ridiculous,” he whispered to himself. “The culprits have all been apprehended. It’s just hospital staff.” But no amount of rationale could quiet his shattered nerves.

The quiet, deliberate footsteps stopped outside his double doors. DeBryn remained rooted to the spot. It was all he could do not to drop down under the counter and hide. Then the doors opened, and Morse walked in.

DeBryn let out a soft breath and attempted to compose himself. “Morse,” he acknowledged with a surprisingly steady voice.

“DeBryn,” Morse answered. “They told me I could find you back down here.”

“Back on the horse,” he answered matter-of-factly, still surprising himself with how calm he could sound while his heart was still racing.

Morse nodded, watching him carefully, and DeBryn wondered if he was as outwardly calm as he thought.

“Drink?” He asked, both because he needed one and as an excuse to turn away from those questioning eyes.

“Please.”

It was poor hygiene to eat or drink in a morgue, but DeBryn figured he’d deserved a bit of leniency. Besides, he didn’t just keep a bottle of Hennessy brandy on his desk because it looked good. He set out two glasses and poured each of them a generous measure.

“I would toast to a trip to the morgue averted, but I suppose we’re here nevertheless,” DeBryn said as he handed Morse his glass. He found it was much easier to be here with someone present. That heartened him somewhat.

Morse, for his part, seemed as uncomfortable as always to be there, which was endearing in its own way. It made him feel a little more in control. He sipped his drink, and let the warmth spread through him.

“Everything sorted back at the office?” He asked, mostly to have something to say.

Morse let out an amused huff. “Hardly.”

DeBryn nodded solemnly. “They’ll figure it out.”

They stood in silence for a while, swirling their drinks; Morse leaning against the desk and DeBryn against the operating table opposite him. For a moment, the morgue almost seemed peaceful.

He wouldn’t have minded just sharing a drink in companionable silence, and letting the past be the past. But of course, Morse wouldn’t be a detective if he didn’t ask questions. It was the same question as before, in the same careful voice. “Are you alright?”

DeBryn sighed heavily. He dropped his gaze, staring instead into the amber contents of his glass. He’d been telling officers and doctors the same brave-faced lie all day, but he supposed Morse deserved more of an answer. “I don’t think one could reasonably expect to be.”

Morse hummed in agreement, and DeBryn supposed that if anyone could come close to understanding, it would be the young detective. The silence lengthened as Morse examined the contents swirling in his glass. Finally, he looked up. “Do you want to talk about it?”

This was why Morse was such a good detective. Always the right questions. DeBryn hadn’t even considered it, had instinctively blocked all memory, just to stay sane enough to keep going. But now, in the quiet safety of his own morgue, maybe it would be helpful to reflect. “Yes,” he admitted softly.

Morse hummed again, but made no further comment. DeBryn stared at the tiles at his feet.

In time, he began to speak. “You know, it’s not the… It’s not the physical aspect of it. The pain. The terror. I hadn’t realized the human capability for terror.” He shook his head, because that wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about. He tried another tack.

“In my line of work, you see a lot of death. Its many faces. I’ve contemplated my own death often, more often than most I’d say. Getting so close to the practicality of it...” He shook his head again. “That’s not the issue. That’s just another facet. I can face that, I face that every day. It’s just...” He hesitated again, licked his lips as he tried to find the right words to describe his predicament. “They’re still people, the dead. They had lives. They had friends. They had a story. And I...” He reached for his glass and took another drink.

Opposite him, Morse did the same, before fixing him with the same attentive look as before. Bright blue eyes with the kindest expression he’d ever seen. He asked nothing of him, but rejected nothing he was offered either. Whatever was said here was safe.

“They had absolutely no regard for me as a person,” DeBryn continued, sounding almost detachedly puzzled. “I don’t think they even saw me as human. I was just a means to an end. A bargaining chip. A lure.” Emotion was seeping into his voice the deeper he probed into the conundrum. “They could have killed me so many times, and it just wasn’t worth their trouble.”

The glass in his hand trembled, and he set it noisily down on the table. What a stupid thing to be upset about. He wiped his hands on the side of his waistcoat, winced when he found a bruise there.

A shadow passed over Morse’s face. Then his eyes settled on DeBryn again, his expression softer than first snow. “Max. Their behaviour,” he said gently, “is not on you.”

It seemed that the kindness hit him harder than any blunt words could have. Words stuck in his throat for a moment. When he found his voice again, it came out scornful. “It’s not like my own behaviour was exactly commendable,” he deflected. “Everyone keeps telling me how brave I was. But I wasn’t... I was so… helpless. All I could do was follow their orders and wait.”

“And you survived,” Morse said, “Which was your only job that day,” he added firmly.

It was a kindness he didn’t deserve at all, and especially not from Morse. He felt almost angry that Morse would be this gentle with him when he was feeling so pathetically deplorable. DeBryn turned away from him, hunching his shoulders as if to ward off an oncoming blow. He looked down at his hands gripping the table’s edge, and forced the words out of his mouth. “I was useless.”

A beat of silence. And then Morse, as always, cut straight to the heart of the matter. “You’re not a coward, Max.”

He pinched his lips and closed his eyes. Morse had found exactly why he was feeling so vulnerable. The word scraped across his skin like glass. There were a thousand reasons why Morse was wrong in his assessment, but not a one Max could speak. He shook his head.

“You’re not.”

Morse was LYING on his behalf, and Max couldn’t even voice the truth of his insecurity. That he had let them use him to get to Morse. That he had played right into their hand and done exactly as they’d said, and almost gotten his friend killed in the process. He gripped the table so hard his hands hurt.

“Max,” Morse began, and the dismay in his voice mirrored Max’s feelings, “you should never have been in that situation in the first place. And I’m so very, very sorry.”

The sudden change in tone and topic snapped him out of his self-deprecating thoughts. “What?” Max turned round to see what he was talking about.

Morse had been watching him, but when Max turned around his eyes shied away from him and settled on a point somewhere to Max’s right. “It’s my fault. I knew what they were capable of, how high the corruption went, and I kept digging regardless.”

“Well, of course you would,” DeBryn said, entirely nonplussed. He would've expected no less from him.

“I didn’t THINK,” Morse said, underlining the last word with a sharp gesture. “I should have been quicker, more careful,” he continued, becoming more agitated with every word. “And the consequences almost got you... – I should have protected you.”

Understanding dawned on DeBryn. He had thought Morse was here out of worry, but apparently that wasn't the only reason. They were both wrapped up in the same guilt, and didn’t even realise neither of them blamed the other. It felt like a knot in his stomach lessened at last. “And you did,” he explained gently. “You came to the quarry.” That had been brave, the kind of bravery DeBryn wished he had had.

Morse took a moment to digest that statement. When he finally looked up at DeBryn, there was a look of wonder on his face, as if he hadn’t even considered the heroism of his own behaviour. “I did.”

“On your own.” It had been all kinds of stupid too, and his pointed look asserted the unspoken reprimand.

The silence lengthened again. There seemed to be no explanation forthcoming. At least Morse had the grace to look uncomfortable. DeBryn drained his glass.

“Refill?”

Morse inspected his unfinished drink. “I think,” he said, placing his words carefully, “it might be better if we went back upstairs.” He looked up, a look of genuine compassion denying any condescension in his words. “You need to get some rest.”

The irony of Morse denying him a second glass was not lost on DeBryn, but he couldn’t claim he wasn’t making a good point. “You’re not wrong,” he sighed. “But I think I’d rather head home.” He hesitated, half-expecting Morse to insist he stay in the hospital for a night, but the man simply nodded, though he showed no intention of leaving. DeBryn realised he, too, didn’t want to break the spell of their quiet company just yet.

They sat silently for a while, and the quiet seemed to blanket the sharp edges of what had been said. It wasn’t peace, exactly, but perhaps the promise of it. In time, Morse began to speak, in the warm tone of an oration, his voice filling the empty morgue with rhythmic music. DeBryn listened with bated breath.

“I know I am august  
I do not trouble myself to vindicate my spirit or be understood,  
I see that elementary laws never apologize.  
I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I build my house, after all.  
I exist as I am, that is enough.”

The silence in the morgue reverberated with the afterthought of the poem. DeBryn mulled over the last sentence, let it sink into his bones. _I exist as I am, that is enough._

Morse emptied his glass. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my thanks to the dedicated [TeaCub90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90/works?fandom_id=581192), who found the time to beta this for almost three weeks! This story wouldn't be what it is now without you.
> 
> The poem is a short excerpt from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman
> 
> Come yell at me about Endeavour on [tumblr](https://parvasilvi.tumblr.com/tagged/endeavour)!


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